Page 21 of Fat Sold Mate
James checks the rearview mirror. “Not yet. But they will.”
“You didn’t kill them?” I don't know why I ask. Don't know why I care.
“No.” His hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles white with tension. “Hurt them badly enough to buy us time.”
The truck bounces violently as we hit a pothole, pain lancing through my bruised ribs. I bite back a gasp, but James glances over sharply.
“You're hurt.”
“I'm fine,” I lie, turning to stare out the window at the passing forest.
We drive in silence after that, the truck straining up mountain roads and around blind curves. The sun climbs higher, casting dappled shadows through the canopy above. I have noidea where we are, where we're going. All I know is we're moving away from Silvercreek, not toward it.
“We can't go back yet,” James says, answering my unspoken question. “The only road from here leads north, away from pack territory. We need to circle around, make sure we aren't followed.”
I nod, not trusting my voice. The adrenaline is fading now, leaving room for the reality of what's happened to sink in.
I've been sold. Purchased. Bonded against my will to a man who sees me as an obligation, a responsibility.
The bond pulses between us, a constant reminder of what's been done. I can feel James's presence in my mind—not thoughts or emotions, exactly, but awareness. An echo of his existence is tied to mine.
My mother once told me the mate bond was beautiful, sacred. A sharing of souls between equals who chose each other above all others.
There's nothing beautiful about this. Nothing sacred in coercion.
I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching trees blur into a green smear as tears threaten. I won't cry. Not here. Not with him so close he could feel it through the bond we never wanted.
“We'll need to find somewhere to stop soon,” James says after miles of silence. “Rest. Check your injuries.”
“Fine,” I say, the word clipped and cold.
He sighs, one hand running through his disheveled hair. “Ruby—”
“Don't.” I cut him off, unable to bear whatever justification or explanation he might offer. “Just... don't.”
The miles stretch between us like the physical manifestation of everything unsaid. The truck labors up another incline, engine protesting but persevering. Just like us—moving forward because there's no other choice, regardless of the strain.
Through the bond, I feel James's frustration, his concern, his uncertainty. I push it away, building mental walls to keep him out of the corners of my mind where grief and humiliation battle for dominance.
Mountains rise around us, ancient and indifferent to human suffering. The road winds deeper into their embrace, carrying us further from everything familiar. Further from home.
But what is home now? Not Silvercreek, where I've always been the outcast. Not my bookshop, which I fled without a backward glance. Not this truck, with a man I'm bound to against my will.
I am adrift, untethered from everything except the unwanted bond that now defines me.
As the sun reaches its zenith, casting harsh light across the dashboard, I close my eyes against its glare. Against reality. Against the man beside me, who saved me and destroyed me in the same breath.
James drives on, steady and determined, as the distance between us grows despite the bond that will never let us truly separate again.
Chapter 8 - James
The cabin appears suddenly after hours of driving in deliberate circles to throw off our trail, a weathered structure nestled between towering pines as if the forest itself had grown around it. I slow the truck, gravel crunching beneath the tires as we pull into the narrow clearing. Beside me, Ruby stirs from her uneasy half-sleep, amber eyes blinking open to take in our surroundings.
“Where are we?” Her voice is hoarse from hours of silence.
“Thomas's family hunting cabin.” I kill the engine, the sudden quiet overwhelming after the truck's persistent rumble. “About fifty miles north of Silvercreek. Far enough that the Cheslem wolves won't find us easily.”
Ruby says nothing, but I feel her skepticism pulsing through our new bond—an unwanted awareness I'm still struggling to navigate. The connection isn't complete, not without the physical aspect we've both tacitly agreed to avoid, but it's strong enough that her emotions bleed into my consciousness like watercolors on wet paper.
